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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387508">Next To You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776'>startraveller776</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Captain Swan Incomplete Collection [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Friends to Lovers, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:29:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,323</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian had taken one look at Emma Swan and knew she was every kind of trouble a man ought to steer clear of if he wanted to keep his sanity. Beautiful, vulnerable—probably with a heart-rending backstory—but hiding it admirably behind a tough exterior. She was an open book to him, and he’d read one just like it before. The last thing he needed was to have her as a flatmate. Unfortunately, he was outvoted. <strong>(PERPETUALLY INCOMPLETE)</strong></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Captain Swan Incomplete Collection [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094441</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Dirty Dishes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>There will be no further updates to this story. Read at your own peril.</strong>
</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <em>profdanglaisstuff requested: “CS prompt: How about a classic roommates trope? Secretly in love, thinks the other's not into them. Friends all just roll their eyes waiting for them to figure it out.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>This has been sitting in my documents for ages, wanting to be more than the one-shot I'd originally planned, but less than a true multi-chapter. I've finally decided to be what it is: a series of snapshots in a single universe (in chronological order). I don't know why, but Killian is the one who wants to tell the story, so everything is in his POV.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Emma <em>bloody</em> Swan.</p><p>Killian glared at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Bloody fantastic. Just what he needed after a long night filling in for one of his bartenders: having to look at that crusted mess while he partook of his nightly libation. Only enough rum to put his cares to sleep. He shook his head. He wasn’t going to clean up after her. Not this time.</p><p>Life had been just fine before she moved into the flat he shared with David and Robin. Practically perfect, in fact. Sure, they had to tighten their belts a bit after Arthur bailed on the lease to go chase after his dreams of being a bloody rock star, but they’d managed. Meals out traded for ramen and spaghetti. Killian was happy—mostly. Sometimes. Once in a while. Certainly a hell of a lot more often than he was now.</p><p><em>Come on</em>, David had pleaded months ago when the three of them were crammed in the bathroom to vote on their new potential roommate. Why the bathroom, Killian still didn’t know. <em>She’s my cousin. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go. She’s going through a rough patch, but she’s good people.</em> Killian listened to the sob story, completely unmoved. He’d taken one look at the woman and knew she was every kind of trouble a man ought to steer clear of if he wanted to keep his sanity. Beautiful, vulnerable—probably with a heart-rending backstory—but hiding it admirably behind a tough exterior. She was an open book to him, and he’d read one just like it before. That one ended in a special brand of misery that he had no intention of experiencing ever again.</p><p>But he was outvoted because Robin suffered from the same “white knight” complex that David had. They <em>had</em> to take in the damsel in distress, even though Killian was fairly certain this damsel could handle herself well enough.</p><p>“'You won’t even notice she’s here,’” Killian muttered under his breath, mimicking the words David said months ago. That was a bloody <em>lie</em>. Killian couldn’t walk ten feet without some indication of Emma. The afghan strewn across the couch in a rumpled heap. Her shoes forgotten by the front door. The brassieres dangling from the shower curtain rod once a week.</p><p>And now he was staring at a sink full of dishes for the hundredth time, forced yet again to choose between his obsession for cleanliness and letting the responsible party take care of the mess—whenever the bloody hell she wanted to.</p><p>No. Not tonight. He marched down the hallway toward her room. If he had to wake her up, then so be it. This madness had to end right now. He wasn’t her bloody maid.</p><p>He raised a fist to pound on her door, but stopped when he noticed it was cracked, a soft glow of amber light peeking through. He pushed it open further. “Swan?” he murmured quietly.</p><p>There was no answer, and he tentatively stepped across the threshold, his earlier frustration sinking into resignation. She had fallen asleep with her glasses on, book open and face down beneath her chin, bedside lamp burning bright. Killian glanced heavenward and blew out a sigh. This bloody woman. He crossed the sparse room, boxes and suitcases stacked neatly in the corner as if, after four months, she still thought of herself as a temporary guest. He was not going to think about how well he understood this particular sentiment.</p><p>He slid the dark frames from her face, carefully as if he were playing a round of <em>Operation</em> with his young nephew, and set them on the nightstand. He gritted his teeth at the small oval of discoloration on her cheek. That was likely courtesy of one of the “skips” she was chasing. Killian never faulted her for her chosen profession as a bail bondsperson, but he didn’t care for this part of the job. <em>You should see the other guy</em>, she quipped whenever she came home with a bruised rib or a swollen lip. That it was a blessedly rare occurrence didn’t stop Killian from wanting to pay a visit to the lockup, to give that “skip” a lesson on good form, regardless of the fact that she’d probably already given the bastard a far more effective demonstration.</p><p>Next came the book, a careworn paperback. Killian held back a snort. <em>Love On the High Seas</em>? Was she serious with this? He was tempted to scan a page or two, but it felt too intimate, an uninvited peep into what she found titillating. Besides, he likely would never measure up to whatever swashbuckling protagonist starred in her fantasies—not that he wanted or needed to. He found a bookmark on her nightstand and placed the novel next to her glasses.</p><p>This was where he ought to turn out the lamp and leave as quietly as he came, but he couldn’t quite make his feet move. She looked so different like this. At peace. Not shouldering the weighted past that she still kept close to her vest. He tugged the blanket up to her chin, and she snuggled deeper into her pillow with a soft sigh. He stopped himself before he reached out to brush her pale hair from her face.</p><p>“Bloody hell, Swan,” he muttered under his breath as he finally switched off the light. He needed another dram of rum—make that two.</p><p>Right after he cleaned up her mess. Again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Rum Confessions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We’re closed!” Killian shouted from the kitchen when he heard the door to his pub squeak open. Will had clearly forgotten to lock up when he left.</p><p>Killian listened for the answering whine of hinges as he finished wiping down the countertops, but it never came. He draped a towel over his shoulder as he made his way to the front. It wouldn’t be the first time some bar-hopping straggler came after last call looking for just one more nip.</p><p>He sucked in a breath, ready to kindly escort his unwelcome guest out, but the words withered at the tip of his tongue when his eyes landed on Emma Swan. Her back was to him as she surveyed the empty establishment, but there was no mistaking that red leather jacket, the long flaxen locks rippling down her back. He noticed the slump in her shoulders as she reached for the door.</p><p>“Now,” he said, “if you happen to be a flatmate of the proprietor, you’re welcome at any time.”</p><p>She turned around, mouth curved up in a hint of a smile that looked strangely like gratitude. “I guess it’s my lucky night, then.”</p><p>“Aye.” He gestured toward a stool at the bar as he made his way behind it.</p><p>He set a pair of tumblers on the countertop and then reached for the bottle of Brugal 1888. Her choice of liquor had been the same since the first time she joined the crew during one of their regular visits to the pub. She’d asked him what he was having and that was that. In the last month or two, she’d even taken to joining him on occasion during his late night libation, sitting on the kitchen counter while he leaned against it, talking about nothing in particular or not talking at all. They’d become friends, and Killian had to admit that David had been right all along; Emma was good people.</p><p>He poured out a finger of rum and pushed the glass to her, raising a brow when she downed it in a single gulp. “Skip get the better of you, Swan?” he asked, studying her face as he poured her another. There weren’t any marks on her pale skin, but her eyes—those were lined with red.</p><p>She met his gaze with that guarded expression that he was intimately familiar with. If she wanted to keep her secrets, then he wouldn’t push. He opened his mouth to tell her as much, but she spoke first. “David probably told you that I was a foster kid.”</p><p>Killian nodded. That fact had been part of the case David made for letting Emma have the spare room in their flat.</p><p>She gnawed on her lip as though deciding whether or not to entrust Killian with more. He dropped his chin, gaze falling to the stain in the dark wood countertop that he couldn’t get out. He well understood her hesitancy to reveal more of the ghosts that haunted her. Not many were able to carry the weight of those truths. He could, though.</p><p>He met her eyes and offered his own confession. “You weren’t the only one, love.”</p><p>Surprise fluttered briefly over her features, chased by relief. “So, you know.”</p><p>“Aye, that I do.” All too well. He set his elbows on the bar, waiting for her to fill the silence with her cares.</p><p>She picked up her glass, this time taking only a sip. “I got a call from a lawyer today, from the DA’s office. They’re bringing charges against the last family I stayed with before...before I ran away.” She blew out a long breath before adding, “They want me to testify.” Her voice was so achingly small, a whisper. Gone was the armor she wore like a second skin. In its place was the image of a lost girl.</p><p>He had to tramp down the anger pulling his chest tight. She didn’t need some hot-headed man to chase down revenge on her behalf, though he desperately wanted to. No, she needed a listening ear, someone to lean on while she found her footing again. “Do you want to?” he asked.</p><p>“I don’t know,” she murmured, peering at her glass. “I just want to forget—all of it. I worked hard to move on.”</p><p>He understood that, too. “Then forget it. They can do the job without you.”</p><p>She shook her head. “That’s what I want to tell myself,” she said, “but I have to think about the other kids they might have hurt. Testifying is the right thing to do.”</p><p>He stared at her with something akin to awe. Clearly what she had suffered was terrible, and here she decided that it was worth reliving if it meant helping others. Could he have done the same? Faced bloody Silver in the courts? Killian was glad the man died years ago of lung cancer, a better end than the bastard deserved.</p><p>Emma waved a hand. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”</p><p>“All right.” He refilled their glasses. “What shall we talk about, then? Your latest take-down of some criminal? How long before David finally proposes to Mary Margaret? The epic battle between Robin and that developer over his homeless shelter? My dashing good looks and rapier wit?” He finished with a wink, and yes, there it was: a smile stretching across her mouth like a flower blooming.</p><p>“You’re not <em>that</em> good looking,” she countered.</p><p>“I beg to differ, love,” he argued. This wasn’t flirting, not truly. It was the deflection she needed, and he was glad to be of service. “I can hardly pass a day without several propositions tossed in my direction.”</p><p>She raised her brow with an impish grin. “I’m pretty sure most of those are from Smee,” she said, referencing his fiercely loyal assistant manager.</p><p>Killian threw back his head and laughed. They’d taken playful jabs at each other before, but it was different this time. Less strained, more...<em>comfortable</em>. “Don’t play coy with me, Swan. I know you’re jealous.”</p><p>“Yeah, right.” She snorted. “I get enough propositions of my own, thanks.”</p><p>He wasn’t surprised; she was really quite breathtaking. If she wasn’t his flatmate, if she wasn’t his friend, he might have thrown his hat into the ring for a night. But she <em>was</em> his flatmate and friend, and that was the end of that train of thought. “Beating them off with a stick, are you?” he said.</p><p>She breathed a quiet chuckle. “I don’t always beat them off.”</p><p>He raised a brow. “Oh? Has someone caught your fancy?” It wasn’t any of his business, and he half expected she would tell him so. But she didn’t.</p><p>Instead, she shrugged, gaze falling to the empty tumbler in her hands. “I met someone last week. He seems nice.”</p><p>Killian didn’t know much about Emma’s love life—he hadn’t wanted to—but she had always seemed more like him, only interested in the occasional dalliance when that itch needed scratching. This sounded like something more, and his skin felt a little too taut at the notion.</p><p>“I’m supposed to go out with him tomorrow, but I don’t know if I should.” She looked up at Killian with a searching gaze, as if eager to know his response. As if what he thought mattered to her.</p><p>Was he supposed to encourage her to follow through with the date? Or dissuade her? That his inclination was to do the latter was not something he wanted to examine. He settled on a neutral reply. “Why not?”</p><p>She stared at him for an uncomfortable beat, then let out another soft laugh. “You’re right,” she said. “I should give him a chance.” She climbed off the stool, adjusted her jacket. “Thanks for the drink and the listening ear.”</p><p>“What are mates for?” He gave her a smile, though his stomach turned sour as she walked out the door, wearing her armor once more.</p><p>He had the sinking sense that he’d failed a test, but that was ridiculous. She wasn’t the kind of woman who toyed with others, not like… No. He wasn’t going to think about <em>her</em>. Not tonight. Not ever. He was reading too much into his exchange with Emma.</p><p>He shook his head and picked up the tumblers. It was past time to close everything up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Games</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Killian reached for the door of his flat and hesitated, steeling himself for what he might find inside on a Friday evening—Emma’s presence or the absence of it. It had been two months since she showed up at his pub after hours, and their interactions had oddly grown both more chummy and more distant. They’d bonded further over their similar childhood experiences as orphans. They discovered a mutual fondness for unusual television series and black-and-white films. She confessed the unhappy story of her first heartbreak; he shared his in return—a tale of woe that he rarely divulged to even his closest mates.</p><p>At the same time, she never spoke of the man she was seeing and Killian never asked. She didn’t comment on the one or two occasions he’d spent the night elsewhere. He returned the favor. These omissions became the impenetrable divide between them, and when he deigned to admit its existence, he told himself it was better this way.</p><p>
  <em>All right, Jones. Quit stalling.</em>
</p><p>She was likely out with Walsh, and Killian could grab a couple of slices of leftover pizza and catch up on some reading. He was bloody tired after spending the day working through his taxes with his bookkeeper.</p><p>Unfortunately, as soon as he crossed the threshold, he was accosted by David’s girlfriend.</p><p>“Killian!” Mary Margaret jumped up from the couch and tackled him with a hug. “You’re just in time! We need someone to partner with Robin.”</p><p>“Yeah, mate,” Robin piped up from his seat. “I’m beginning to feel like a fifth wheel here.”</p><p>“What—?” Killian began, but stopped when he saw the game set up in the living room. He surveyed the rest of the scene. There was Robin, David, Mary Margaret, Emma and...<em>Walsh</em>. Killian’s jaw went tight. “Sorry, love,” he said to the petite woman next to him, fumbling for some excuse to avoid this disagreeable surprise. “I’ve got to go over the payroll—”</p><p>“Oh, but that’s Belle’s job, isn’t it?” Mary Margaret gave him a brilliant smile and, linking her arm with his, ushered him toward the group. “Come on. It’ll be fun!”</p><p>Killian doubted that, but he pasted on a grin because there was no arguing with the lass when she had her mind set. He gave the others a nod as he settled down next to Robin. “She roped you into this too?”</p><p>Robin shook his head. “David’s idea.” He dropped his voice and added, “Something about presenting a united front.” He tipped his chin toward Emma’s beau.</p><p>Killian raised a brow. It would seem that he wasn’t the only one who disliked the interloper who’d lately captured Emma’s attention. Killian had taken the man’s measure on the few occasions they’d crossed paths and found him wanting. But that wasn’t something he was allowed to have an opinion on, so he kept his thoughts to himself.</p><p>“Hey, Killian!” Walsh called out in that overly cheery voice of his. “How’s the bar these days?”</p><p>“It’s a pub,” Killian said curtly before he could think better of it. Usually he was forgiving of Americans not knowing the difference.</p><p>Walsh huffed an uneasy laugh, his smile dropping a notch. “Bar. Pub. Isn’t that kind of the same thing?”</p><p>Killian shook his head. “One’s for drinking fancy cocktails and mixed drinks with ironic names, dancing to loud music, or watching every kind of sport known to man on a dozen flat screens.” He made a valiant effort to sound sociable, but by the daggers Emma was looking at him, he was doing a poor job of it.</p><p>“The other’s for winding down,” Robin continued for him, “for meeting with friends and loved ones and sharing a pint.”</p><p>Killian shot his mate a grateful look and finished the explanation. “It’s for drowning your sorrows when you’re down or celebrating life’s bounty. And occasionally watching a <em>proper</em> football match.”</p><p>Walsh glanced between the two men with narrowed eyes. “Wow,” he said, counterfeit geniality back in place. “You guys are really passionate about this.”</p><p>“They are. Don’t get them started on soccer versus football,” David said with a good-natured laugh, clearly attempting to alleviate the budding tension. Though he <em>did</em> toss a quick wink in Killian’s direction as if to say that he hadn’t truly disapproved. “Should we play the game? Mary Margaret?” He glanced at his girlfriend.</p><p>“Right! Yes!” Mary Margaret exclaimed, clapping her hands. “So, we’re going to play a little more cutthroat version of Pictionary.”</p><p>As she laid out the rules of the game—something about three different levels in a round—Killian shrugged out of his coat, gaze involuntarily falling on Emma as she leaned against Walsh. The man looked good on paper: educated, moderately attractive, unfailingly good-mannered. But there was something insincere about him, as if he were more mannequin than human and he viewed Emma through the lens of his plastic world. Worse, she acted like she wanted to exist in that fake reality with him, utterly devoid of those things that made her unique. Even now, as she laughed too loudly at some moronic pun Walsh made, she was missing that ineffable spark.</p><p>Killian wasn’t jealous. He had no cause to be. It was merely that Emma had become one of his dearest friends, and he wasn’t the sort of man who stood idly by when a mate was headed toward heartbreak and misery.</p><p>“...then the next team can steal all of the points from that round if they can guess the last image correctly,” Mary Margaret finished explaining. “Emma and Walsh will go first, then Killian and Robin, then David and me.”</p><p>Four rounds into the game, it was clear that Walsh was bloody terrible at it. The fact the man had trouble scratching out a stick figure on the board bothered Killian far less than how he blamed Emma’s handiwork each time they lost all their points to Killian and Robin. The comments were subtle, delivered with that fake grin and damnable oh-so-polite tone, and the others mistook them as affectionate teasing rather than the insults they really were. Killian grit his teeth and held his tongue—</p><p>Until he couldn’t anymore.</p><p>“Bridge Over the River Kwai,” he called out after Emma and Walsh’s time ran out.</p><p>“That’s what it was?” Walsh said with a forced laugh. “I’m not sure how I was supposed to come up with the title from <em>that</em>.” He gestured toward Emma’s sketch.</p><p>Killian stared at the man for a beat and considered whether or not he could swallow down yet another retort without becoming physically ill from the effort. No. Not bloody this time. He rose from his seat, pointing to Emma’s rather ingenious interpretation of the prompt. “That’s a bridge, mate,” he said, not bothering to filter the disdain from his tone. “And that’s a river under it. And that?” He indicated the line of stick figures followed by a question mark. “That’s a bloody <em>queue</em>. This is meant to lead you to ‘why,’ and together you get ‘Kwai.’”</p><p>Walsh’s eyes briefly turned to slits before he faked a chuckle. “I guess Emma and I haven’t been dating long enough for me to know her funny little quirks.”</p><p>“It’s not a bloody <em>quirk, </em>mate!” Killian had had his fill of this charade. “If you’re shit at something, own it like a man. Don’t blame Emma for your incompetence!” He opened his mouth to unbottle the rest of his frustration—after all, in for a penny, in for a pound—but he was yanked back from the brink by a single word from Emma.</p><p>“Killian!” Her expression could only be described as stunned ire.</p><p>Killian glanced at the rest of the group. David and Mary Margaret appeared to be competing over whose brows could climb the highest. Robin offered him a look of sympathy, and <em>Walsh</em>. Bloody Walsh gazed smugly back at Killian, arm curling possessively around Emma’s shoulder.</p><p>Forget this. Forget the whole lot of them.</p><p>Killian snatched his jacket off the couch and headed for the door. He needed a drink, and he wasn’t going to brood in his room while she fawned over the bastard just a few feet away. Maybe he’d find a reason to stay out the rest of the night.</p><p>He slammed the door shut behind him and didn’t bother looking back when he heard it immediately open again. He didn’t need whatever any of his friends had to say—Mary Margaret’s well-meaning platitudes, David’s stern big brother act, or Robin’s solidarity. And Walsh? If the man had the temerity to continue their argument, then they were going to have it out, and there was going to be a hell of a lot more than words involved.</p><p>“What was <em>that!?</em>”</p><p>It was Emma. Of course.</p><p>Killian stopped, glancing heavenward with a sigh before turning to face her. “If you weren’t going to defend your honor, then someone bloody well had to.”</p><p>“Defend my honor?” she said with a heavy dose of incredulity. “I don’t need someone to play white knight for me. I can take care of myself.”</p><p>“When?” he countered, advancing on her. “<em>When</em> were you going to take care of yourself in there? Because it looked like <em>never</em> to me. That’s what it always looks like when you’re with him!”</p><p>Her eyes went round, lips parting in shock as she retreated from him. “What the hell are you talking about?”</p><p>He breathed a mirthless laugh. “You don’t see yourself when you’re with him, do you?” he said. “How you twist yourself into knots to become <em>his</em> vision of a perfect girlfriend.”</p><p>“That’s not true!”</p><p>“It <em>is</em> true!” he returned. “You think you’re going to find happiness by pretending to be someone you’re not? By making a fake life with someone who can’t be bothered to appreciate <em>all</em> of you—even the ugly bits? The Emma I know deserves someone better than that insufferable git!”</p><p>She flinched as if he’d slapped her, but in the next beat, she squared her shoulders, set her jaw in defiance. He’d have been glad to see that fire back in her if he weren’t so damn angry. “Oh, yeah?” she said. “Like who? <em>You?</em>”</p><p><em>Yes!</em> He hastily bit back the knee-jerk answer. It was a truth he’d tried so hard not to know for the last several weeks, and now it flayed him open like a knife to the gut. But he wasn’t about to let her see it. “You couldn’t handle me,” he deflected in a low murmur.</p><p>She stared up at him, back against the wall. “Maybe you couldn’t handle me, <em>love</em>.”</p><p>Every cell in his body came to attention at once and begged him to answer her dare. He wet his lips, gaze falling to her mouth. “Don’t I know it.”</p><p>The air became heavy, unbreathable. His pulse thrummed as she tipped her chin up just a hair, and he leaned forward, ready to drown in the siren song that was her.</p><p>“Everything okay out here?”</p><p>David’s voice doused Killian with cold reality, and he stepped back. What the bloody hell was he thinking? Emma wasn’t some barfly he could have a quick romp with and then part ways. She was his roommate, his <em>friend</em>—despite their heated exchange—and he was going to toss it all for what? A <em>kiss?</em> Besides, he’d be damned if he played the role of “other man” again, this time knowingly.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Emma said. “We’re fine. I’ll be right in.”</p><p>David frowned at the two of them, but blessedly left whatever thoughts he had on the matter unsaid. “All right. Mary Margaret’s just about finished explaining <em>Cover Your Assets</em> to Walsh. You might want to hurry up.” He cast another searching look at them before retreating back into the flat.</p><p>Killian ran a hand over his face. “I wonder if your <em>boyfriend</em>—” he emphasized the word as a reminder to himself, “—will fare better with that game.”</p><p>“Don’t,” Emma warned. “Killian—”</p><p>“Goodnight, Swan,” he said, cutting her off. He didn’t need to hear her rejection. It was written all over her beautiful face.</p><p>He left without another word.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! If you've got a moment, I'd really, really love to hear your thoughts! I know that this is angsty, but I promise a happy ending!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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